The Cutting Edge
by PutsOutForBuffs
Summary: He was a violent, sociopathic beast; a cold-blooded killer that left none untouched by the steel of his blades. Maybe if she'd known that earlier, she wouldn't have brought him into her home, wouldn't have let him permanently screw up her life.


**Prologue**

Moonlight washed over rain-streaked streets, its vivid rays illuminating the marble city in a brilliant silver glow. Silence hung over the simple Demacian homes like a thick blanket, a heavy fog that hushed the ominous boot-falls of patrolling guards as they went about their nightly duties, ensuring no one had been foolish enough to wander outside past the strictly-enforced curfew. For what good deeds went down past the witching hour? None, according to the Demacian law-makers. The curfew was a necessary measure in minimising crime on their pearly white streets, enforced under the belief that anyone ambling about the roads at such an obscenely late time could only possess dark intentions.

For all the fullness of the moon, its hazy tendrils did not quite pierce the blackness of one lonely alley. Within its darkness hid a slumped form, a man that blended so effortlessly with the shadows it was almost as if they were one and the same. There was little movement on the street-dweller's behalf; no indication of whether they were alive or dead, not so much as a twitch beyond the shaky rise-and-fall of their rattling chest. How long that chest would continue the natural motion was anyone's guess, given the defeated state he appeared to be in.

Back firmly pressed against the cold stone wall, arms limply resting in his lap, head tilted to the side as if his neck gave up trying to support its weight... it was abundantly clear that he was incapable of movement, even if he so wished it. Though, considering the swift and feared hand of Demacian justice, that should have already been obvious. Not even the village idiot would willingly risk unlawfully staying out on the streets of that city. The punishment was too great, the danger too high. Even this man had not intended on sticking around after-hours, and would not have, should fate have been a little kinder.

He was dying, this he knew.

Trails of scarlet mapped the watery cobblestones, copious amounts of blood staining the once-faded blue uniform he had had adorned and causing it to stick to his body in a manner that was far from comfortable. Clumsy fingers grabbed at the tattered remains of fabric, gracelessly tugging at the cloth until he managed to rip away a decently-sized strip, pained grunt rising from his throat from the sheer effort. Though, the material would not make it further than his prying fingers. There was no energy left in his being to even attempt stifling the steady flow of blood, the extent of his injuries making any such endeavors virtually useless. He was dying. There was no two ways about it.

Dark eyes drifted closed, another shaky breath pulling itself from his chest as the thunder of passing guards filled the air. Ugh, the amount of noise the blundering oafs produced was ridiculous, the sheer inelegance almost cringe-worthy in the eyes of the assassin. They were nothing, nothing but noisy children blindly stumbling about in the darkness, absurdly oblivious to what was right under their noses. What would their commanders think, to know that their trained puppies had passed by the presence of one of their greatest nemesis's none-the-wiser? That their brainless hounds had marched right on past the infamous assassin, as stupid and sightless as the day they had been born.

Demacian guards were a shining example of leading a horse to water, but not being able to force it to drink. Their "elites" could train up the dimwits all they wanted- teach them how to properly wield a sword, how to effectively enforce the ridiculously strict laws, the proper reactions to certain situations. But all the tutoring in the world would _never_ be a suitable substitute for the sincere lack of wits they possessed. After all, who would ever think shady characters- the very ones they so tirelessly sought- would be hiding in a dark alleyway? Clearly it made more sense for them to be sauntering about the illuminated streets in plain sight.

 _Perhaps their criminals are as dim-witted as their guards,_ he thought to himself wryly.

Though death was imminent and his thoughts mocking, he would not deny that it brought him a certain comfort in knowing that no Demacian sword would get the honour of ending him. He had always been under the impression that he would meet his end in a flurry of blades, a final confrontation with someone- or someones- who could match his skill. One fatal mistake would seal his fate, brought about by an err of judgement on his behalf. Not some half-witted oafs who happened to stumble across him whilst he was too weak to defend himself.

No, his current state was through no fault but his own, he would die through no fault but his own, and he wouldn't wish to have it any other way.

The rain picked up its rhythm with renewed vigour, a soothing beat that was almost successful at lulling his uneasy mind. It was oddly warm against his skin, but it didn't detract from the uncomfortable sensation it left in its wake, nor the eventual chill it inevitably brought to his skin. A stifled grunt left his throat as he made a pitiful attempt to shuffle backwards, trying to shelter as much of himself as physically possible beneath the over-hanging rafters, but was quick to abandon such fruitless attempts. He simply didn't have the energy to spare.

Would now be the appropriate time to admit he had been a fool? The allure of information regarding the disappearance of General Du Couteau, the sweet temptation of answers that had eluded him for so many years, the cursed hope that they mystery would finally be brought to an end... it had irrevocably, _unquestionably,_ corrupted his judgement. He had knowingly rushed into a trap, had _known_ that it was far too convenient that the person he'd been seeking out for _years_ had basically extended an open invitation to him, leaving nothing short of a flawless bread crumb trail for him to follow. Like a lamb to the slaughter he had followed, all the while berating himself for his apparent desperation.

Looking back, it was clear that he had been fully aware his endeavour would not end well. She had dropped off the face of Valoran on the same day the General had been reported missing, stirring much controversy in Noxus about what had happened to her. Had the General killed her before fleeing? Did she know something she wasn't supposed to? If that were the case, which he considered most probable, had _she_ fled the city-state of her own volition or had she been discreetly snuffed behind the scenes? So many questions he'd been too eager to have answered. Though there was one in particular he'd unwisely ignored;

If she'd gone into hiding so long ago, why in the name of Runeterra would she reemerge now?

Yes, the whole situation had been entirely too simple. After searching too long, slaving too many days away, his common sense had surely eroded into near non-existence. There was no excuse. He had grown weary of chasing meaningless ghosts and dead-ends, so much so that he'd blindly jumped at the first opportunity to bring an end to it all. Even as he consciously acknowledged the potential of a trap he had grown arrogant in his abilities, believing himself skilled enough to overcome whatever ambush had lain beneath the abandoned home. He had become complacent. He had become desperate. He had become _foolish._

And he was about to become dead.

The knowledge should have frightened him, but deep down a part of him had always known his life would draw to a premature close... if not a painful premature close, at that. One did not merely claw their way up from the slums of Noxus and into the service of the infamous General without facing dire risks. The so-called Noxian nobility did not smile upon nor favour those who could not be bought off, bullied, or brainwashed into mindless loyalty, putting himself into an even tougher position. His blatant lack of allegiance towards anyone outside General Marcus Du Couteau spoke for itself.

Ha, he would find himself thoroughly unsurprised if they happened to be the ones behind this plan. He had been nothing but a thorn in their side ever since the General's disappearance; a frustrating thorn that they could not hope to contain nor control. That was what made him dangerous to them. That's what made him _threatening._ Irregardless of his blatant lack of interest in political affairs, they knew he posed a genuine risk on a different level, should he deem their deaths... necessary. Beneath General Du Couteau, he had been restrained. Without General Du Couteau, no one could be guaranteed safety from the humanised weapon.

Ploys were exactly the way nobles operated, were they not? And what a perfect ploy it had been. To lure him away from the safety of Noxus with such urgency that his wits were abandoned in the dust. To personally guide him into an elaborate underground trap with no viable exits, almost assuring his certain demise in that dark abyss. Ah, but there was the catch. _Almost._ Whoever his true attacker was, whoever wished to see his body decimated, had severely underestimated his abilities as an escape artist.

And the Blade's Shadow was not someone to be underrated.

Years upon years of narrow escapes and close-calls, of thievery and other illicit activities, had permanently sharpened his mind. He had- eventually- broken free of that ghastly room, though not without obtaining some fatal injuries in the process. The walls had been rigged with a variety of nasty contraptions, the opaque darkness making it difficult to identify them; he had only known the bite of razor-edged objects slicing his flesh to ribbons, the sting of blood-soaked clothes sticking to his wounds as he struggled out of that tiny opening. He hadn't been able to spare a glance to evaluate the damage as of yet, and neither did he believe he would ever get the chance to.

Did it really matter, in the end? Did anything matter? Such ponderings were pointless when death was knocking. He was injured, yes. The injuries were going to kill him, yes. Knowing the details of his wounds would not change his fate. Perhaps they would make him grimace over the grizzly sight, bring him amusement at the realisation of how doomed he truly was, sadden him for the days he would never get to experience. But the outcome would remain the same: he was going to die. That was all he needed to know.

The sharp lashings of rain failed to penetrate his awareness now, a heavy drowsiness smothering his thoughts and gnawing away at the edges of his conscious. His mind was falling into a pit of blissful obliviousness, save for the once-comforting weight of his favourite blade, now sitting impossibly heavy on his arm. Numbness clutched his body in a deathly grip, hazing out the pain of his wounds and dousing his senses. For the first time in his life his senses were muted to the world, the normally alert assassin unabashedly unaware of his grim surroundings.

He was fading.

Just as the eternal embrace of the abyss was beginning to claim him, his mind succumbing to its dark tendrils that gently tugged him away from the world of the living, a strange echoing met his ears. He struggled against the grip of unconsciousness just long enough to recognise the splash of footsteps on the cobbles, though he was too weary to determine the distance. A guard, maybe? Most probably? The bumbling fools had finally found him, were hurrying to be the ones to get the honour of finishing him off...

 _It's too late,_ he thought to himself, _you're too late._

But it wasn't the cool steel of a sword that touched his chest, nor the bark of infuriated guards that harassed his conscious. The lack of harsh iron of shackles binding his wrists was enough to stir his attention back into the realm of the living, if only temporarily. Something smaller, softer... a hand, the owner decidedly feminine, had tenderly splayed itself over his chest. Other noises accompanied the action, and a few precious moments ticked by before he pieced together fragments of words. Was she trying to make conversation? Insolent wench. Let him die in peace!

The stranger would give him no such luxury. Those fingers were no squeezing his wrist, another pressing against his neck... what in the name of Noxus was she up to? He tried to open his eyes, honestly, but his eyelids had grown far too heavy in the past few minutes. It had only been minutes, right? Besides. The darkness was comforting, in a way. No obligations. No responsibilities. Just an empty void waiting to draw him in...

Another harsh poke, that at least roused a growl from his throat. His next failed attempt came in the form of words- to tell her to leave him be or at least drive a blade through his chest and end his misery- but the most he achieved was a slight twitch of his lips and exhalation of air. The intoxicating scent of vanilla filled his nostrils when he dragged a breath back in, confirming his suspicions of the stranger's gender. No self-respecting man let himself smell so sweet. The hands continued their investigation of his body unbidden, prodding and prying as if performing some pestering experiment on him. A slight pinch beneath his arms penetrated his awareness, followed by the sensation of being dragged across a rough surface. What in Runeterra...

Unable to resist the pull of gravity, his head immediately lolled backwards, but did not find the hard landing he had anticipated. Had someone padded the concrete? It suddenly felt smooth, warm... comforting. Maybe it was the Demacian's way of protecting their kids from rough falls and scrapes, some sort of sorcery straight out of that School of Magic they so loved to boast of, a pitiful means to shelter their offspring from the hardships of life. Ha. How typically soft of them.

At least he would die in comfort.


End file.
